


Crack Open Your Skull and Let's Get Started

by BeyondtheKilljoy



Series: At Heart I'm Good, I Swear [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Ambiguous Character Death, Derek-centric, Implied Character Death, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5830984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondtheKilljoy/pseuds/BeyondtheKilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They bring him in in the winter. Derek is serving duty at the main gate, just waiting for time to pass, when the men carry in a crate with a scrawny adolescent chained within. He has large eyes, amber, and they stick out most to Derek.<br/>--<br/>Derek is content to be a solider, to serve his kingdom as a knight rather than a prince. But he might use his princely status as an advantage to continue to see this prisoner-believed-spy, Stiles. Especially if Stiles continues to confuse him as he speaks on thoughts Derek hasn't even said yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crack Open Your Skull and Let's Get Started

They bring him in in the winter. Derek is serving duty at the main gate, just waiting for time to pass, when the men carry in a crate with a scrawny adolescent chained within. He has large eyes, amber, and they stick out most to Derek. He’s left the gate completely unattended by his eyes. What had this boy done? Derek had seen villain come and villain go over this bridge and rarely are they restrained so heavily. He doesn’t even look to be more than eight stone, his bones jutting every which way.

He smells of dirt and energy, the kind that is palpable. Like when the sun was so hot that even the waiting ladies would take cover and the chain metal on the jousters would shimmer in the light. His scent held the taste of spring water and the night sky without the moon. It swallows Derek, causing him to chase and identify and wonder how the boy could smell nothing like the human flesh that held him.

The strangest part of it to Derek is that the adolescent doesn’t struggle. He sits in his chains, letting them fall gently around him. He has never seen a person make the heavy chains look like feathers so easily. It is as if he has allowed them to bring him in. The boy never glances away from Derek, his eyes swimming between their lashes. The castle could have been stormed in those few breaths and Derek wouldn’t look away.

When they pass through the oak doors, Derek snaps back into himself. He’s never felt that way of floating before, as if he was detached from himself and yet, had no discernable location of being. His chest feeling hollow, thinking on the adolescent, he returns to the watch. He can’t outrun the bittersweet empty that accompanies the loss of the prisoner from his sight.

Later that night, near the fire with a glass of mead, he hears on the boy. He sits near the guards, but feels no attachment towards them, besides Boyd. They reflect his emotions, seeing as they have to respect him due to him being the Queen’s son. Boyd is also of high blood, but he would rather spend his days in chainmail. He never quite found a niche within the court, so he took to learning how to be a knight. Being a Wolf, it was never hard, except how all humans thought he had unfair advantages.

That is another reason why he and Boyd melded so nicely as comrades. Boyd is also a Wolf, turned by his mother when he was a small lad. There was no man of the estates that Boyd came into, killed by wild horses. His mother also perished during childbirth, and Boyd grew into a quiet Wolf with a grandmother and no desire for the land he owned.

The men talk low, never quite realizing that it doesn’t matter as long as Derek is within the room. They will never be able to speak low enough for him not hear. “I hear he’s in here for witchcraft.” Boyd catches his eye, knowing that Derek has special interest in this. He can probably smell the curiosity flooding from Derek.

“My lady says that there was talk of him refusing to counsel Lady Laura.” At this, they pause to throw glances towards Derek and Boyd, but mostly Derek. Laura is his most favorite of siblings, and any guard that had ever spoke ill of her learned that. He remains sitting there, staring into the fire and slowing sipping his mead. He’s too intrigued to give up his illusion.

“We took him down to the lowest part of the dungeon, orders of the King.” The man pauses, probably for effect. Derek leans forward, not needing the leverage to hear, but much too curious to stop himself. They don’t take notice. “The King said he didn’t want the boy to see sunlight again for so long he forgot what it was like. Whatever he’s done, it’s bad.”

Boyd and he continue their meal in comfortable silence, not needing words to express themselves. Derek is able to tell that Boyd is not harmed from his day in the arena, that he is tired and wishes to be home with his grandmother. Boyd should be able to discern how Derek is sitting politely just until he can slip away to question everything.

Derek leaves them soon after, bored with the wild things that they came up with and feeling as if Boyd would forgive him. The moonlight pools on the stone floors, through the open garden he wanders to. Though it isn’t full, the silver of the sky cuts into his bones and runs warm in his blood, despite the chill of the night. A sharp gust of wind slices into him, causing him to realize just how cold it is. A Wolf is never without his fur, and sometimes he neglects to remember it isn’t the same for the humans. His mind is drawn back to the prisoner, with his bones a parchment’s width away from the air. Derek was an obedient guard, but that doesn’t make him a cruel man.

The blankets come from his bed directly. He doesn’t want to ask a chambermaid where to fetch more blankets, and tomorrow’s night would prove him to have more anyway. Admittedly, a strange urge washes over him to share his scent with the boy within the dungeon. Derek isn’t kept in a high tower, unlike Cora for her foolish antics, but rather in a listing of rooms that opened to a courtyard. His mother and father sleep across the way, enjoying the way the window opens to the moon over their bed. The guards that stand before their door are nothing but show, for both his parents would awake if an intruder were to step a foot in the palace.

Derek regards the guards for a moment, the night too dark for them to see him, his footfalls too soft now for them to hear him. He lets his nose take him once he enters the dungeons. He knows the bottom floor is where prisoners go to be forgotten, but Derek cannot forget the smell of this one. It does not fit with the mildew and wet stone and sunken belly stench of the dungeon.

The adolescent isn’t asleep, not by any means, from the rapid breathing that comes at the end of the corridor. Derek walks towards the cell cautiously, making sure that his steps could be heard through the echo of the bricks. The breathing abruptly quiets, a strain placed on his lungs to breathe low.

Derek faces the cell, nothing in there to give light off. The closest lantern is two cells down, so it only casts hazy half-shadows onto the threshold of the room. Derek looks closely to see a silhouette on the cot on the far wall. He wonders idly if this is one of the rooms where the cots are bolted down, so the prisoner can’t hide anything. Seeing as it is in the lowest level for the dungeon, it is likely.

The adolescent is sitting up, and Derek imagines his honey eyes strained open to see the beast that has come to his place of unrest. Derek knows his outline is showing, his large muscles and tall frame probably appearing to be something horrid out of a storybook. He knows that if he were to show his beta shift, than even in the lantern light he’d still appear as the monster.

“I’ve brought you something.” Derek says slowly, making sure that his voice keeps open instead of gruff. He is generally brash, something his sister Laura would scold him about until no end. He was excused time and time again from the court because of his heavy tongue. Derek ducks slightly to grab open the pieces of metal that will shift from the outside to push things in. The blankets are stuffed roughly to fit in.

The boy’s scent peaks with interest, the smell of the springtime become stronger, but he stays put. It is as if he is scared that this is a cruel joke or terrible trick to get him nearer to the bars. Derek stands, waiting for a moment before moving slightly away from the door. _Why are you here?_ He wonders.

Derek sighs, turning to leave. The day has been a long one, with a majority spent standing in the cold. The full moon is too close for him to consider spending all night near a caged room to gain the trust of the frightened animal within.

“Why do you think I’m here?” It was spoken so softly, a lilt up at the end. Derek could imagine it to be the wind, rather than the bony bird within the room. There is no reason to return, for why would the boy speak again? He probably wasn’t aware that the Wolf could hear him, and perhaps this Wolf is just imagining what he wishes to hear. Turning around would just fuel him in a negative way. Derek keeps his pace.

He hears the scuttle of the feet on the stone as he rounded up the stair, causing him to smile. The boy wouldn’t go cold afterall. It was only once he is secure in his bed, his flimsy sheet over his skin, and the cry of the crickets lulling him to sleep that he realizes he had never spoken his question out loud.  
\--  
The question haunts him all next day. While he spars with a soldier hoping to be knighted, the blunt end of the man’s sword catches his side as many times as there are hours. His mother ends up calling him out from the arena, which is embarrassing on all degrees.

“What troubles you?” He stomps close to her, angling his head up to look at her in her chair. There is a viser above her, casting shade onto her features.

Derek sighed. “Who is the new prisoner?” Truth is an absolute among the Wolves.

Talia appears confused before her faces closes up, showing nothing. Derek waits, knowing that she wouldn’t deny his question in its entirety. “He’s a capture from Deucalion’s kingdom.”

Derek tenses. There is no open war with Deucalion and his people, but there is friction between their kingdoms. When he tried to convince Talia that she should kill some of her children to show off her power was when he lost her alliance. However, besides the McCall kingdom - which is neutral towards both - there are no other major kingdoms around to aid them in war. So the two kingdoms stay locked in a dance, both too cautious to take the lead.

“Why did we capture him?”

“He was found within the forest near the palace. He took the Wolves on a run but they caught him in a trap. It seemed like they couldn’t get close to him, so we called in some human guards, which cut him down and brought him in.” Talia stops looking at Derek, instead scanning the arena. There could be no foul play on the days when she came to observe.

Derek has a thousand questions swirling within his mind, but he lets her be. He can tell when a conversation is over, and he understands she doesn’t always have time for every question he can think of. He doesn’t understand why the Wolves couldn’t get near the adolescent, or why he was coming over from Deucalion’s kingdom. He is so thin that Derek wouldn’t believe that he could have been a spy.

Derek wanders away from the arena and into the town. It is atypical for a royal to be able to meander through the heart of their kingdom, but Derek isn’t a highly desirable royal. He isn’t very sociable and, seeing as he is a highly trained Wolf, assassination would be hard. There were women who look to woo him, win his favor, and a place in the palace. But no whore, common lady, chambermaid, duchess or princess had ever caught his eye.

The palace isn’t too far from the arena, but far enough that the soldiers don’t have to feel confined to those two places once they pledge themselves to the kingdom. It doesn’t take long for Derek to walk over the bridge. He wonders what the adolescent’s name was. He wonders if he was trying to escape Deucalion’s kingdom, and if so, why.

He wonders why he is skinny, most of all. In order to pass the highly protected borders, travelers have to pay heavily. If he could get through, why is he nothing more than bone? Did he take all of his money and put it up to get past the border? Why was he hiding around the palace? Is he seeking refuge?

Derek is in the kitchen, with three loaves of bread and some chilled, salted ham before he realizes what he is doing. A cook chuckles nearby, and moves around him, producing a plate. He smiles gratefully at her, remembering her face vaguely. He feels slightly bad for his forgetful nature when it comes to servants.

She also gives him a cup of water with a full smile on her chubby face. “I take today was an eventful day at the arena then, eh?”

He focuses on her for a second, trying to be polite. “You could say that.” He laughs nervously.

The dungeons are just as dark as the night before and Derek makes his footfalls just as loud. He does hurry this time, ensuring that he doesn’t drop his plate. He sets it down on the floor next to the cell door, peeking in to see the boy sitting wrapped up in the blankets. Derek hopes he recognizes the shadowy figure.

He travels slightly away from the cell, in order to retrieve the closest lantern before returning. He can smell the boy, the slight scent of mold and decay hovering over his unique scent. He’s starting to smell a lot like defeat. Derek still wants to see him.

He is still as dirty as Derek recalled him. Only his neck and head pokes out of the blankets, his skin ghostly under the layer of grime. The honey eyes open, somehow, even larger than they were and his pupils retract to take in the light. His lips are chapped, the skin under his eyes dark, and his frame weak. Derek hopes someone has been down here to feed him before he thought of it.

“I brought you something to eat.” Derek peels of some of the ham and takes one of the loaves and puts it in his lap. The other two loaves and the rest of the ham is left on the plate. He opens up the slot that will open wide enough and so carefully puts it inside.

It dawns on Derek that this was the first time, since Derek was guarding the door, that the boy has seen him and knew it was him. He watches him cautiously, unsure how this prisoner answered his question last night, and to see his response to Derek. The adolescent seems to do the same, not shifting from his bed. Derek can almost taste his hunger, and wants to beg him over to the food, but he stays patient.

He isn’t leaving without the plate or glass back. Or without some answers.

Finally, the boy caves. He crawls out from under the covers, and Derek is once again shocked by how scrawny and gawky he is. His tunic hangs off his shoulders, tattered and slightly bloody. Derek worries that the boy is injured.

He moves slowly over to the food, his eyes just as open as their first encounter, but his posture defensive. This wasn’t the boy who made chains seem like glass, but a new one. This boy makes the room seem like a trap, the water acid and the shadows demons. This is a boy full of fear and doubt.

Derek can’t help but question what happened throughout his day in order for this to be the result for the evening. He snatches up some of the bread and sits out of reach. He shoves some of it into his mouth, his eyes closing to enjoy it. Derek feels a secret twinge of happiness because of it.

“What’s your name?” Derek found slipping out of his mouth. It is one of the more important questions to him, but he thought he should let the adolescent eat first.

The boy chews slightly slower, regarding Derek. Derek holds the hope that the boy will be honest, and knows he will be able to tell if he isn’t. “Stiles.” There is no skipping heartbeat, no intake of breath, no jittery gaze. Everything stays stable.

“Stiles.” Derek tastes it. It’s the energy within him that bleeds out into his scent. Stiles. “My name is Derek.”

“Derek?” Stiles reaches for another piece of loaf, his slender fingers out stretched for the next bite of life, when he pauses. “As in, Derek Hale?”

Derek could lie. He could have a completely normal interaction with Stiles, with this prisoner who is forced to endure him. But, even if he doesn’t think that Stiles would be able to tell that he had lied, he does not wish to. “Yes.”

“Did your parents send you? As a way of buttering me up before killing me? See if they can get anything out of the captive?” His demeanor changes almost instantly, his eyes hard and jaw set. Derek sits back slightly, unsure on how to proceed next. Stiles could melt the iron that separates them if he so wishes with the glare in his eyes.

“Why did you say what you said last night?” He blurts out. What on God’s earth could possess him to say that at this point? He should be apologizing, explaining, not demanding answers. Afterall, Stiles isn’t some royal come to pester the newest captive.

Even Stiles seems surprised, his face going slightly slack. The fight that was burning in him a few moments before seems to have diminished. “What do you mean?”

Derek sighs. “Last night you said something, but I didn’t…” It sounds crazy. Even to Derek, who had been pondering it for an entire day, and has convinced himself that it was real. Now he isn’t so sure, sitting in front of Stiles. He looks at Derek like Derek is crazy.

“I didn’t say anything last night.” Stiles ducks his head, but Derek can’t detect a lie. “I didn’t know who you were or what you wanted. I wasn’t going to invite anything bad to happen to me.”

Derek snorts. The boy’s smart, at least, and doesn’t appear to be a liar. Derek regretfully surrenders the idea that he spoke the night before, claiming it instead underneath one of his tired imaginings. Pieces of his mind still demand that it wasn’t, and that he should still question it, but Stiles seems to be truthful in his answer. The least Derek could do before condemning him was believe in his innocence.

He finishes stuffing the first loaf in his mouth and picks up the other one. The meat lays untouched, which Derek takes note of. He’s partially happy for the extra meat he’ll get to eat, and slightly concerned. “Why not the ham?” Derek phrases the simple question.

Stiles flinches like Derek had chose to be hateful. It makes Derek’s insides curl up on themselves to see the grimy boy shrink back. “I don’t eat meat.”

“That’s okay.” Derek quickly assures him. He can bring him fruit and nuts to help make sure that Stiles isn’t doomed for a slow death. Derek makes a note to remember to bring him citrus, because it tastes like sunlight and will be the closest imitation Derek can give him.

Stiles sighs, stretching out on the floor. Derek can hear his bones pop, and it causes Derek to wince. He hates how cramped the cells were, but they are for prisoners and prisoners are in them for a reason. There was enough space for a guard to safely come in without fear of the inmate being too close, and wide enough to put a chamberpot away from the eyes of the people outside the cell.

Derek can discern how tired Stiles had become from the simple interaction and waits for Stiles to push back the tray and empty glass. He hopes that the next sleep that he gets is a long and good one, and resolves himself to continue to bring food. He wishes to know more about the boy, if he would be willing to share.

Stiles pushes it quickly to where Derek can reach and quickly moves back. Derek wonders who else had been down here and what they had done to cause Stiles to fear them. He scurries back to his cot, pulling the covers around him again. Derek can’t help but to think on the prisoners in the upper levels and when they will start noticing that he comes down often.

“Goodnight, Stiles.” Derek says gently.

“Goodnight, Derek.” Stiles says quietly from his bed. “Thank you.”

Derek pauses, seeing the first glimpse of kindness from the boy. He considers pushing his luck. “Why are you here?” He whispers, so low that Stiles may not even hear the words, just see his lips move.

Stiles smiles gently. “Why do you think I’m here, Derek?”  
\--  
Watching Stiles eat strawberries is fascinating. The next afternoon Derek carries down a tray with strawberries, blueberries, and another few pieces of bread and two glasses of water. Lunch is a family activity, usually followed by everyone doing their own individual activities. Derek’s is typically practicing in the arena, Laura’s is studying, and Cora’s is stitching up in her tower. Sometimes, on a particular slow day, Derek will take his younger brother, Jonathan, to the arena as well.

Today’s meal passes quickly, as Derek is not interested in small talk and Talia has a hearing to attend about a civilian dispute. His father, Lucas, may be King but he did not rule. Derek steals out of the room before Jonathan could find him or his mother could question him, which he soons realizes is one of his wisest decisions yet.

The chefs seem surprised when Derek comes in to collect more food but allow it. He knows that they are beyond curious when all he takes from their cupboards is rabbit food. It doesn’t matter, at least not until his family hears word on it.

Derek makes a mental note to attach a lantern outside of Stiles’ cell, to make it easier for him. But today, he carries it back after placing the food down on the floor. Stiles has already scrambled off of the bed and onto the floor, eager to see what Derek has brought him. It settles a small piece of Derek, inherently Wolf, to provide for another. Being a knight typically curbed that particular desire but lately it only provides a time filler.

Stiles crouches over the plate, the tips of his fingers disappearing into his mouth with the berries. Juice slips from his pink lips, a small color coming back into his cheeks. Derek can’t help but smile at this moment. At points, Stiles pauses to look at the grime on his hands and arms, frowning. It makes Derek upset as well, to see Stiles displeased at his current state.

He wishes to be able to smell past the stench of the underground and the energy embedded in Stiles’ skin to discern if he had been hurt. The dirt that is caked on him is concerningly unhealthy, even to someone that isn’t half-starved and possibly injured. Derek sometimes forgets how fragile human lives are, but also has a tendency to overestimate just how delicate they were. He’s relatively certain that his worry over Stiles’ hygiene is sound, and his present state needs to be cleaned.

Stiles sometimes stops to scratch at his skin, the grime sticking underneath his fingers. His dissatisfaction is nearly palpable in the air around him to Derek. Derek wants it to stop being so heavy around him, and looks for a topic to speak on, even though Stiles has gone back to munching on the berries.

“I take it that is something you would enjoy more often?” Stiles doesn’t seem to hear, a pleased and distracted whine slips out his throat.

Derek is okay with waiting, and not talking today. He feels as if talking to Peter today had been toil enough and conversation enough for a while. He wonders when he can sneak down some water and rags for Stiles to clean himself, worrying that he will catch infection if left to lay in his filth any longer.

“You seem to enjoy being here.” Stiles says, coming up for air. Derek is been so deep in thought that he didn’t realize Stiles is observing him. “Is it for the scenery?” He snorts, scooping up another berry and popping it into his mouth.

Derek understands how Stiles must loathe it in the dark cellar of his new home. “I feel comfortable down here.” Derek responds. He isn’t sure what Stiles wants from him, if he wants anything besides freedom, or why he feels this kinship towards Stiles.

“That makes one of us.”

Derek flinches. “I’m sorry.” He says dumbly. He can’t say anything else, trapped by being a prince. He is sorry that Stiles decided to lurk around the palace and then got caught. He is sorry for whatever may be happening while Derek is away, whether it is neglect or something worse. He knows his parents and he knows them as human and ruthless.

Stiles scoops up the rest of the berry pieces he can get his hands on, sighing. The plate is pushed as close to Derek as Stiles feels comfortable going. Stiles’ overall stench is regretful for him, like the dead animals at the bank of a river in the hot sun before the vultures come down.

“I will see you soon,” Derek promises. He leaves, up to the kitchen to return the platter, over into his room to change into his guard garb, and out to the front.

Where Peter waits patiently for him. Derek tries hard to not show his irritation, acting as if the bridge is the single most interesting thing he had happened upon in his short life. Peter ambles around the flowers in the garden near him, close enough that Derek can hear the way the grass folds under his sandals. Close enough that Peter knows that Derek can hear him, and steps as loudly as he does.

Derek contemplates asking Lucile, one of the head chambermaids for Cora, if she knew where he could find the things to give to Stiles to bathe. She probably did, seeing as Cora rarely could come down and is left up in the tower for most of her needs to be fulfilled. He gets so caught up in thinking on a new tunic for Stiles, a clean body for him, and perhaps a second cot for his frail body to rest on, that he doesn’t realize how close Peter has traveled until he is upon Derek.

“Lost in thoughts while on duty, my dear nephew?” Derek flinches slightly, eyebrows setting and mouth turning down. He may not be allowed to move, but Derek will not interact with his uncle. Peter chuckles. “Is it over our new prisoner? Beautiful boy, really, with such fascinating eyes.”

Derek’s eyes snap over to Peter’s face. It is no surprise that Peter is informed on the new prisoner, but to have been so close to Stiles to have looked into his eyes startles Derek. Peter’s smile becomes slightly more feral, besting Derek into showing him an inclination of emotion. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve taken quite a liking to him. I thought you should know a few things though.” Peter stalls, waiting.

Derek sighs, his inquisitive nature overwhelming him to speak. “What do you mean, Uncle?”

“Ah, see! Speaking is not so hard, Derek.” Peter laughs, his tease only merry to him. “Well, I’m his interrogator. Seeing as he has been particularly difficult, he should be hurt worse than what I do, but I may be persuaded by your dedication to him.”

Derek’s breath catches, his heart hammers hard in his chest. His brain screams at him that he wouldn’t let Peter hurt Stiles, which throws Derek a new perspective. He isn’t aware of when his Wolf had sided with Stiles as more of his pack than his uncle. Before he can plead, threaten, or do a number of reasonings to not hurt Stiles, Peter continues.

“Also, I know you aren’t one to do much listening to rumors. However, the one around the court - and I’m sure the guards as well - is that the boy is somehow involved in witchcraft.” Peter ducks his head, a slight laugh coming out. “And as I have always said, there is always a pebble of truth in the ocean of rumors.”

Derek stares at him for a moment, trying to figure out what his uncle means. Surely, he does not think that a Mage would allow a rival kingdom to capture him so easily? Or is Stiles something else entirely? A body to carry a curse, a familiar, a spark? When it becomes evident that Peter plans to not speak again, but rather watch Derek with gleeful eyes, Derek sighs and turns back to the bridge. He has a few more hours to stand.

Derek finishes up his allotted time standing guard before he rushes inside to find Lucile. She is expectedly found up in Cora’s chambers, but Derek, of course, checks in the chambermaids quarters and the kitchen before heading up. It’s not as if he doesn’t enjoy interacting with his little sister Cora, but he wishes that this would be painless and quick exchange.

“Oh, hello, Prince Derek,” Lucile says mildly, tucking a piece of gray behind her ear. Derek remembers her name clearly, mainly because she was his nursemaid many years before. She has a plain manner about her, as she did when he was younger. Her voice never raises itself, nor does her ears listen to anything unnecessarily. She holds high respect from him, unlike his little sister. He braces himself for when Cora notices him.

“Derek!” She cries, throwing back the canopy that falls over her bed. “You came to visit me!”

“No,” Derek says bluntly, causing her to slouch out of her excited position. “I came to speak to Lucile.”

“So you don’t want to take me to the arena with you?” She pouts. Cora is of excellent beauty, with lighter hair than anyone else in the family and strong cheekbones. Her eyes light up wherever she goes and her lips are just as expressive. Derek knows that their mother just waits patiently to arrange her marriage and move her out to someone who will willingly want to deal with her antics.

“So that you may dart off into the woods while my back is turned?” Derek snorts.

Cora sighs dramatically, dragging herself from her bed. She stands in front of him, still releasing her sigh. “Why can’t I be within the woods? It’s a Wolf’s right!”

“One, you are the most highly desirable of the royals, right under Mother and Laura, and do not understand how to defend yourself. Second, you were attempting to run away with two other Wolves to the McCall kingdom.”

“Isaac and Malia would have taken care of me.” Derek sighs internally. He knows that Cora will never fully understand that she shouldn’t let her wellbeing rest on the shoulders of her civilians. Her blood is meant to be spilled for them, not the other way around. “Besides, I was looking for a great adventure, one with life-threatening turns and great romance.”

“You will have your great romance, that is for sure.” The Queen may want to marry her off, but she wouldn’t send her off to someone Cora had no chance of falling in love with. “But I was hoping to talk to you, Lucile.” He directs his voice at the older woman sitting in her chair and stitching. She has dutifully ignored their conversation, but looks up immediately.

“Yes, Prince Derek?” She asks expectantly.

“Do you know where I could find a bathing pot of sorts? And a new tunic, and towel…” Derek trails off, cursing that he must have this conversation in front of his sister, who begins cackling like an old witch.

“Oh,” Cora wheezes out. “It seems that you will get your great adventure out of this prisoner.” Derek gapes at her, because she should not even had word that Derek has been visiting a prisoner because of her punishment. “Really, brother, you should know Uncle Peter will speak to anyone who listens.”

Lucile stands silently while Cora ridicules Derek, waiting her turn to speak. When he looks at her, she nods her head gracefully, and moves to leave. Derek follows after her, leaving Cora to cry about him going. Derek makes multiple promises on their journey to gather the things he needs.

He promises that if Stiles doesn’t want the tunic, or bath, that he won’t become upset. He promises to find a tunic that fits suitably, and not start caving into every demand Stiles presents. He promises not to give him clothing of Derek’s, so that he could scent-mark him. Mostly, he promises not to let his thoughts wander in the idea of taking Stiles away from his cell. When they get to one of the closets that hold extra clothing, Derek also picks out a pair of tights and a long sleeved shirt to wear underneath his clothes. If Stiles becomes sick in the dungeons, he will surely die.

Taking these things to him doesn’t prove difficult, but Derek isn’t stealthy about the happenings. He knows that all too soon one of his family members will come to him to try and shake him from his convictions. They will inform him that Stiles is a prisoner, and must be treated like a prisoner and that Derek should understand this perfectly well, being a soldier.

Derek will listen, but this time he doesn’t think he will obey.

Stiles appears doubtful when Derek brings down everything. He had left the lantern right outside of Stiles’ cell the last time he departed, hoping it to give him some sort of brightness. The water that is in the pot had long since cooled, but Derek hopes that Stiles will still clean himself. It takes a second, a split second of trust, of instinct, for Derek to open the cell door.

Stiles stares on incredulously from his cot. Derek sits the objects inside on the stone floor, keeping eye contact with the boy. He would not try to dart past a Wolf, but if the Wolves couldn’t touch him, how would Derek be able to stop him? He has to be quicker in closing the door that Stiles is at moving his feet.

Derek travels outside of sight of the cell, calling out a warning that he was not leaving. It feels wrong to not give Stiles some sense of privacy, though. In the guards quarters, it is not uncommon to bathe with four or five other men, but Derek knows that Stiles is not, nor has ever been, a guard. His hands were too delicate for the sword, his muscles too faded to have ever gone through training.

For a few minutes, the sounds of clothes being wrestled out of and water hitting the stones fills the corridor. Then everything is quiet, but it is too quiet despite Stiles’ present breathing and heart beat, and it stays quiet for far too long. Derek pads softly over to the cell, expecting Stiles to be trying to hide something for escape. Instead, he gets the landscape of Stiles’ back. Stiles is standing still, looking down at his hands, perhaps, with his back turned on the door.

His skin is paler than Derek ever thought. It appears as if he was never kissed by the sun, or even touched by the light of the moon. He is as pale as the moon’s glow, captivating Derek just as much. There are constellations of moles dotting along his slender back, disappearing and weaving around his small hips. Derek stares at him like he is the night sky, his Wolf panting too close to the surface. The heat in his blood startles him into realization.

Derek moves back from the cell, trying to keep his breath quiet. He has invaded Stiles, in the most intimate of ways for a human. Derek would not admit it, that he had seen the boy bare, unless forced to. He waits patiently away from the cell this time, his mind retracing the way Stiles’ shoulders were held, the crease in the middle of his back, the soft curve of his round --

“Derek? I’m done.” Derek starts, feeling hot. He tips his head back, taking a deep breath in hopes that it would calm his excited being. He could smell Stiles, completely now, as a crisp breeze through the new leaves of the spring trees, as the moss on the ground, as a frayed and powerful energy. Derek’s mouth waters.

He shakes his head, feeling stir crazy. “That’s good. Did you put on the new clothes?” He had chosen the garments specifically because they were scentless, a fact that Derek is beginning to cherish and despise at the same time.

“Yes,” Stiles’ voice is tiny, a sliver of a shake coming out in it. He must be cold. “Thank you. It’s nice to feel clean.”

Derek feels like it’s safe to return to the front of the cell, now that Stiles has reassured him. His anxiety about seeing Stiles naked has faded, as if he had already confessed his sin and Stiles has already forgiven him. It’s a calming feeling.  
\--  
Springtime comes, in tiny bursts of weak sunlight and hesitant gardens blooming. Stiles becomes more vocal about his wants, or Derek becomes more intune to him. Sometimes Derek couldn’t discern between what Stiles is feeling and Derek is feeling and what is actually being said. Derek spends most of his time down near the cell, often not talking.

The more time he spends around Stiles the less questions he has. It’s as if some piece of Stiles has taken root in Derek and quieted him. He brings books for Stiles, leaves the lantern right outside of the door for Stiles, and delivers drawing utensils for Stiles.

He sometimes wonders idly if Stiles would use these things to escape, but Derek had his heartbeat so memorized he could tell from his bed when Stiles moved from one side of the cell to the other, now even up in his own chamber. Derek rarely worries that Stiles will leave, and in those brief movements, he is more worried of not seeing him again rather than facing the repercussions of his family.

Within his stay, Peter became more lazy in trying to extract information. While the trees were still bare, and the air still sharp, Peter would mark Stiles. It was never in a place where Derek could see, but he could smell the pain on Stiles. Some piece of him, deeply buried within the Wolf, warned him against touching Stiles, so he never took the pain away.

There was only once when a bruise lay against Stiles’ sharp cheekbone. It was gorgeous there, thought Derek in the savage way his mind sometimes operated, but it wasn’t from him. Peter quickly got the message not to mark Stiles’ face, laughing at Derek’s reaction.

However, it is also around this time that his mother begins to advise him to stop spending so much time around Stiles. Derek understands completely why she is so cautious. They held a celebration for the new life of spring, and invited over both Deucalion’s kingdom and the McCall kingdom.

“It’s a three day event!” Laura tells Derek, sweeping into his room too early one morning. He glares at her from his bed, so exhausted that he doesn’t even know what she’s saying.

“What’s a three day event?”

“The festival, you knave.” She sighs dramatically, laying herself on top of his sheets. “The McCall kingdom is coming over, as is Deucalion’s.” She says the last bit sourly. “Which means I get to try on new gowns and attempt to convince you to act civil.”

“Stiles thinks I’m civil.” Derek grumbles, actually not sure what Stiles thinks on his manners.

Laura gives him a pitying look. “I’m sure the prisoner does, little brother. However, you will have to appear in front of the court, who have much more refined tastes when it comes to social behavior.”

Derek sits up to rub the sleep out of his eyes, everything they are discussing slowly being processed in his mind. “Wait, if Deucalion is coming...Do you think he’ll realize we have Stiles?”

“Perhaps,” Laura shrugs. “Mother has somewhat discussed it with me the possibilities, but if he asks about Stiles then we can ask why he was over here in the first place.” She grins. “If there be a war over this prisoner of yours, then let it start on our soil.”

“So the first blood can be drawn by us?” Derek asks, dubious.

“So that they may not rally troops to kill us before we cut them down.” She bares her teeth, her fangs dropped. In moments like these, Derek is not surprised that she is the next in line for the throne, or for being the alpha.

She ushers him out of bed shortly after that, talking of the way the wine will taste and the music will sound and the dances, oh the dances. Derek feels a pang of envy that he cannot have Stiles for this ball, and that it will be increasingly hard for him to sneak around and spend time with him. She catches him up with the McCall kingdom, how the Queen married a knight after she caught her husband in an affair. She talks of their two sons, Scott and Genim and how Scott is a true alpha and heir to the throne, married to a pretty duchess named Allison.

She reminds him that Genim was taken over to Deucalion’s kingdom to marry his youngest daughter, Lydia. Derek remembers when his mother attempted to wed him and Deucalion’s daughter, Kali, and thanks the gods that she realized how incompatible they were before sending him away. Deucalion has married his third wife, Jennifer, and has killed one of his twins. She reassures him that their mother had put her foot down and that there would be no murdering of children under the Hale emblem.

Derek tries to absorb all of this while preparing for the day. He knows his mother has sent her to catch him up to speed, per se, and get him ready to be part of the court, so the least he could do is try to keep up. Laura takes him to the fitters, rambling all the way there about how he has to be nice to Kali, friendly to the McCalls, respectful to Deucalion and courteous to everyone.

She leaves him with Erica, to fit him into a new tunic. He’s insistent that he doesn’t need a new one, he hasn’t grown in over five moons for heaven’s sake, but she waves him off and disappears to find the perfect cloth for her gown. Erica grins at him, sizing him up with her almond eyes.

“Lady Laura sees fit to fill your head until it runs over, I see.” She jokes.

Derek laughs, however weakly. “It’s true. Will you get me out of here quickly?”

She feigns offense. “What, do you tire of me so quickly, Lord Derek?”

“No, I just have some place to be.” Derek mentally adds that he has food to give to Stiles.

Erica heads over to the dark greens. Ever since she became his fitter, she has always favored the greens for him. She says they match the earth that is his skin. “Ah, back to the prisoner that all the men say you have your eye on?” He flushes red, avoiding her eyes. “I hear that you spend night and day in the dungeon, fetching him food and amusement. They say that you are actually his prisoner, that he holds captive your heart.”

She sighs loudly, and Derek has to force the urge to snarl at her down. He never took teasing well. “Why don’t you shut up and pick out the stupid garment.”

She laughs loudly, having been bitten by his mother and sure of her place in the larger pack. Erica no longer fears Derek, and calls him Lord more out of spite than respect. “So it is true? Whatever shall you do for the three days you shall be separated from him?”

Derek looks at her, and she actually seems inquisitive. Her emotional rollercoasters always threw him, even more so now that he doesn’t spend day in and day out with her. She used to be a chamber lady before settling in to herself. “I do not know, honestly. I worry for his health while I am away.” If everyone already knew how tangled he is in Stiles, what is the point in hiding it?

Erica holds up two different shades of green, a moss and an emerald, to his form. He shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean? He will have his toys to keep him preoccupied while you play prince.”

“I fear no one feeds him while I am away.” He admits shyly. To speak words against those who watch over the dungeons felt like treason, but he would speak them anyway.

She glances up at his face, and sees truth written plainly on him. Her eyes harden. “I feel as if we should take a journey, you and I, after I decide the embroidery for your tunic, down to the dungeons.”

“Why?” Derek asks, bewildered. For a split moment, he is terrified that she will kill the dungeon guards, something that would shock no one and everyone at the same time. Erica has the fire of a feral Wolf, but not the bite.

“So that I may discover where your prisoner sleeps, and where to take his meals while you entertain the courts with your good looks and,” she wrinkles up her nose in distaste, “charm.”  
\--  
It is in the springtime when Derek memorizes Stiles’ heartbeat. Early spring, before he starts giving into too many luxuries. because he worries that Stiles will use his newfound luxuries as an escape method. His heartbeat never falters, never leaves the cell, and soon it becomes a lovely background song for Derek while he was anywhere in the palace.

It is only at night, rarely, when Derek wishes that he isn’t so synced to the heartbeat. It starts pounding, waking him from his slumber, and Derek is running to help. He darts past the guards, who can most certainly see him and wonder what the Wolf knight was doing at this hour. It’s when he gets to the bottom floor, in Stiles’ empty corridor, that he slows down and really listens.

The sound of soft gasps and cut-off groans fill his ears and he can see it, could walk a few feet forward and really see it. There is the sound of flesh being tugged on, the cot shifting under the constant motion. Derek smells the arousal, heavy on his tongue, hot like the end of spring but it’s mostly energy. It’s the dark night sky with nothing but shooting stars to streak through the expanse. It’s a wire caught on fire, singing from the heat.

Derek feels like crying from the heat, his body too focused on Stiles to leave. He presses a palm to his groin, willing it to soften. His blood rushes around his ears, drowning out everything besides Stiles’ flimsy breath and wet skin. Derek’s back hits the stone with a dull thud and Stiles’ hand freezes.

Derek realizes, with almost disgust in himself, that he hopes Stiles didn’t hear him. That Stiles continues, so Derek can slip his hand beneath his tunic to feel one with him. And Stiles does, so Derek follows. Every twist of his wrists, pull at the foreskin, it makes him feel sick pleasure.

Stiles starts to whimper, which Derek has to bite through his lip to keep from responding to. Their scents mix like this is heaven to him. The lazy heat of his summer scent mingles into the blooming smell of spring, the smell of new iron mixes with the rich dirt, and all Derek wants to do is stay here. He wants to breathe heavier, pant, drink in the air.

Derek presses his back so hard into the stone that it is probably cutting his skin open and blood is darkening his tunic. He should be able to feel the wet heat, but with Stiles crying out softly, everything is wet heat. He doesn’t care because the only important thing in the world is the way Stiles was moaning unashamed now, the way his lungs were filling with desperate air. It is everything in Derek’s world at that moment. He tightens his grip, trying to push himself to wait longer, but then Stiles whimpers, and it’s a word and it has Derek broken.

“Derek,” Everything is gone, the cuts from the stone, his hand on his dick, the corridor, everything. The only thing that exists is his name, framed around Stiles’ pink lips, gasped out with pleasure. Derek becomes sure he will be caught, that this time is only luck that he isn’t found out.

Derek refuses to leave his bed, now, when the heartbeat wakes him from his sleep. It’s a siren call, and he can’t quite deny it completely, but the satisfaction he feels leaves him dirty with a piece of lead in his stomach. Stiles doesn’t know that Derek listens in to get his own pleasure. He can only hear the fast beat, the promise of more, and the memory of Stiles.

He should bring it up while they sit together, Derek working on carving pieces of wood while Stiles draws, because his emotions grouped Stiles as someone he could trust, a piece of the pack. Trust is absolute among Wolves. So why does he not feel the need to resolve this issue? He blames it on the upcoming days they will be apart.

The festival comes quickly, with the flowers blooming early. The McCalls arrive first, Queen Melissa greeting his mother warmly. Prince Scott ducks his head, looking tired, and helps a pale beauty out of the carriage behind them. She whispers something of encouragement in his ear, tucking her body to hold onto his arm.

Derek waits inside with his siblings, feeling nervous. He has done this dance a multitude of times; say hello, have a witty piece of memory tied into their greeting, say they’re glad that they could make it. And yet, he’s still certain he will stumble over it.

Queen Melissa is too caught up talking with his mother to formally greet them, waving a hand for Scott to go ahead and make pleasantries. Derek can hear, as they wander off, that her new husband stayed home to watch over the kingdom so that she may come to see the beauty of the Hale kingdom. Prince Scott smiles when he sets eyes on Laura, all dimples and twinkling eyes.

“Hello, Lady Laura! It is excellent to see you again.”

She ducks her head, the perfect picture of humble and happy, which Derek knows is a flat out lie. “Hello, Prince. How did travel fair you?”

“It is a long journey from our home to yours, but I enjoyed the time spent. It was nice to have time with Allison away from the court.” He looks at the girl on his arm, and she blushes, smiling up at him. They are the perfect picture of love. As well should, when Prince Scott has all of his alliances in order and is heir to the throne, who wouldn’t he be allowed to marry?

“Ah, when is the wedding set?” Laura slips into her actual self, a glint in her eye for the high amount of teasing she has in store for him.

It is the duchess that speaks. “Sometime next summer.” She says softly. “We aren’t picky on the date, but that’s the best time for my family to come back from their voyages.” Everything about her seems soft, from her scent of cotton and ponds, to the way she holds herself.

“That sounds wonderful.” Derek clears his throat. His mother would have his head if he didn’t say at least something to them. “Perchance, hopefully, we can all make it to the celebration.” His eyes betray him and slide over to where Cora stands next to him.

Prince Scott bursts out a hearty laugh, which appears to bemuse Lady Allison. “Ah, yes, I heard about your attempted escape to my kingdom.” He looks over at Cora, which Derek finds relief that the focus has been shifted from him. “You’d be welcome over anytime with a pass from your mother. I’m sure you and Allison will get along terrific.”

“I heard that she has the truest aim in all of the land.” Cora says, boasting up that she knows something about the engaged. Even the Lady herself looks surprised.

“I am good with a bow and arrow, yes.” She chuckles slightly. “I would not mind to show you, if that would please you.”

“Can you show me?” Jonathan piques up from where he has himself hidden behind Laura’s dress. He is of seven summers, and yet is small enough to still fit the tunic of a boy of two to three less summers than him.

Suddenly, the entirety of the interest of all them is focused solely on the duchess, whether it be how she curled her hair or how she shot a flying sparrow. Derek’s relieved that he will not have to speak anymore, and it looks like Prince Scott is relieved that he also is no longer in the spotlight. Derek wonders if the rest of the festival will be focused mainly on those who are engaged, unlike the last festival where he had broken off his engagement with Kali and everyone was focused on that. And if that is how this festival would turn out, he wonders if he could manage to actually sneak and find time for Stiles, who has just begun to open up to him about his life.

Sometimes Stiles puts down his book and talks about his family. He never discusses if he was a part of Deucalion’s court, or why he came over into Hale territory. He talks a lot of a father, who seems to be some type of soldier. Derek isn’t sure if he was a knight, because that would be the only way he could have a family legally, or if he was a soldier who had an illegitimate son with a chamber lady who grew up in court.

He talks about the arena over there, and how they play gladiator sports, which Stiles sometimes watched. Derek grimaces at the outdated idea of having two men go at it to kill each other, but couldn’t deny that it was a very Deucalion activity.

Derek discovers that Stiles is around seventeen summers old, born in the middle of a late July, with the sun still existing in the sky without burning the cobblestone street ways. He was trying to become a portrait painter, but his father wasn’t able to often buy his required tools. He briefly mentions his mother, which Derek can smell the sadness rolling off of him then. It doesn’t take someone who was less dense to realize she had passed away.

Derek talks about growing up in court, how he never fit in. He talks about losing his little sister to smallpox one year, one of the few ever born a Hale and not a Wolf. Derek explains how he thought growing into his Wolf would help in the court, but it just made him long for simplicities even more. Stiles asks to see Derek shift, to see the claws and eyes and fangs.

He is awe struck at the eyes, saying that they are too golden to be real. Derek refrains from commenting about how close a shade they are to Stiles’ own. Days pass quickly, with no way to tell time besides the oil in the lamp and how long Stiles’ hair gets. Derek loves the way that it grows, Stiles often pushing it up and out of his face. Derek wonders what he would have looked like at the festival, in a deep purple tunic with silver on the seams.

Deucalion’s family arriving for the festival is a different event. They all wait by the gate, a perfect vision of unity, for them to pull up. Kali, and her husband-to-be, Ennis, leave the spacious carriage first. Derek can tell the moment she smells him, her dark eyes sliding over his family to settle on him and glare. He returns her gaze coolly, refusing to allow her the satisfaction of riling him up. Next out is the surviving twin, who is one of Cora’s suitors, and after him is a woman of immaculate beauty.

All of his family seem to be caught off-guard with her too. She’s slightly too far away for them to make certain she is not a wolf, but her scent didn’t give anything to detect it. She holds her head high, her eyes sharp like the rest of her features; overall she was striking with her pale, perfect skin and dark hair. Deucalion steps out after her, and places a hand on her waist. Derek can feel his stomach drop.

That is Jennifer, Deucalion’s third wife?

The greeting is all tight smiles and cool rebuttals on both ends, except when it comes to the teens and Jonathan. They must know of their families frictions, but they must not understand. Derek realizes that one of the younger siblings is missing, and waits until the Kings and Queens have brought themselves back to the discussion of family to bring it up. He feels a nagging at him, a worry, because she is his only human child, born from the same woman who bore his twins, and is ultimately his favorite from their family.

“Ah, excuse me, but is Princess Lydia’s well being in high standing?” Derek goes for casually concerned, and formal, hoping it doesn’t upset anyone.

Deucalion swings his face in the direction of Derek. He had lost his eyesight years prior when he fought to seize the land he now rules. “Ah, my darling Lydia stayed home to tend to the kingdom. She’s been heartbroken as of late.” Derek doesn’t need to be Wolf to be able to tell he’s lying on that piece.

Laura makes a sad sound in the back of her throat. “I’m sorry to hear that. Can I ask how?”

“Her fiance, Genim, has been spirited away it seems. We haven’t the faintest idea of where he went.” Everyone seems to tense up at the simple statement, as if it is thrown like an accusation. Derek reassures himself that it can’t be Stiles, because he is no prince and bears nothing to that name. Stiles, who is being kept alive out of Erica’s good heart while he attends the wretched festival.

The first dinner passes without incident. The royals make talk while the servants watch on nervously. Almost all of the servants in the room are Wolves, holding themselves tightly and waiting for any sign of attack. Derek gets to sit next to Cora and the twin, Ethan. They discover, much to Derek’s amusement, that his fancy lies not with Cora but with a more masculine ideal, which leads, very much not to Derek’s amusement, to Cora trying to set them up. Kali sits a few seats down, buffered by her engaged. He seems to be a quiet man, and loving towards her, so Derek’s left hoping that her ill will towards him has somewhat decreased.

After dinner the next night, she corners him alone in a courtyard. He slipped away to enjoy the blooming life, rather than the strain of the kingdoms. He barely hears her, just a snarl, before he feels claws cut through his tunic. A flash of white hot pain takes over, causing him to twist on pure instinct. _Don’t let the threat get to your back._

He spins, seeing her jump a few feet back. She snarls, posed for an attack. Derek has no idea what to do, not wanting to start war. “Where is he?” She practically screams at him.

Derek steps back, legs shaky. He can feel his back start to heal, but the blood is still cool in the springtime air. “Who?”

“Oh really, you decided that you wanted to crush both of my father’s daughter’s chances of marrying high.” Her fangs drop, distorting the rest of what she says. “Then you decide to act stupid about it.”

Derek doesn’t even know what she’s going on about, and doesn’t have time to answer her, what with the lunging she does next. He dodges left, blocking her arm but missing her foot. He feels his body slam into the wall, his vision temporarily blacking out. He’s pretty sure one of his ribs is cracked, but he ducks down low to gain his breath and howls before she attacks again.

“I’m not going to fight!” Derek says breathlessly.

Her eyes are blue, one day to be red when she takes over the kingdom. “Then I’m going to kill you.”

Derek throws up his arms, hoping that she’ll just dig into his muscles and tear before his family gets there, but before she can touch him there’s a snarl from his left. He pushes himself into standing, Laura having thrown herself over Kali. She’s shouting at Laura, screaming that they took the prince.

The rest of the royals come running into the courtyard, his mother pretty much snarling everyone back into standing. She looks at Kali, who is unscathed and obviously still full of fury, and then over at Derek, who feels like his back is still bleeding and knows his rib is cracked. She turns to Deucalion, slowly, as if she still wishes to salvage this. Queen Melissa looks on carefully.

“Why did Kali attack my son?” She asks lowly. There isn’t a way that Deucalion could say that it might have been Derek attacking her, not with his blood on her nails.

He tips his head slightly, and stares at her. She flinches back, dropping her gaze but not her anger. “It seems that my daughter believes that Derek is somehow involved with the loss of Lydia’s engaged, Genim.” Talia raises her eyebrows at him, knowing full well he can’t actually see her. “Afterall, he hasn’t returned to his home kingdom, has he?”

Prince Scott clears his throat. “My brother hasn’t been seen since he agreed to wed Lady Lydia.”

“Well, rest assured, we have taken anyone that hasn’t been within our borders. And none that we have taken have been royal.” Her eyes cut sharply over Kali. “So, unless you have sent someone within our borders, we haven’t taken a single citizen of yours.” She says the last piece like a challenge, letting it hang in the air.  
\--  
As the days grow longer, Stiles catches sickness. It worries Derek to no end, and he brings down remedies, and teas and ice water with rags to dip them in. Stiles became so weak that he often wouldn’t take care of himself with all these things. One day, Derek falls asleep outside of the cell, and wakes up at some later time. Stiles sleeps on, his rib cage rattling from the need to cough.

Derek knows that if he came into the cell, he might not be able to touch him and Stiles might wake up and panic. Derek knows this, but the pitiful way that he shook in his sleep scares Derek. He doesn’t want Stiles to die, even if it would release for him. Derek knows he’s selfish.

He creeps inside the cell, the lock a mechanism that doesn’t need a key but a hand from the outside. Derek soaks a rag in the cool water near the cot, hesitating before going to place on his face. Stiles sleeps on, his skin burning under Derek’s touch. Water runs from the rag onto his face, and Derek moves to wipe it off.

Stiles’ skin is reddish, but so soft. It feels as a newborn’s would. He couldn’t help but let his hands touch his face, his neck, his lips. Derek couldn’t stop staring, knowing that Stiles has moles on his face, but the ones that barely were a shade darker than his skin surprises Derek. This boy surprises Derek.

He wipes at the sweat with the rag, and then dips it back into the water. He places it gently on Stiles’ forehead before pushing back to stand. His knee hits something hard, and he glances down to see Stiles’ bound art book on the floor. He flips it open, out of curiousity, to see his face greet him. It’s a closeup of his eyes, detail showing that it was him in beta form. It makes his transformation look beautiful.

Derek closes it softly, looking at the sleeping boy. He doesn’t know what else Stiles would draw in here from the eye, but he left it to be a secret. Stiles will show him when he wishes him to see.

Summer comes too quick this year, which meant training the new recruits. Some men who chose to be soldiers were civilians, some chose it over a sentence in the dungeon for a petty crime, and some did it to provide for their families. The days are filled with courses and practicing and teaching for Derek. As a knight, he has twenty men to train for evaluation. His often stay the latest, his eyes keen on the mistakes each makes.

He wants them to have the best chance at this life choice.

He goes to the dungeon with tired feet and a tunic sticking to him, carrying food in one hand and what remains of his energy in the other. Stiles speaks to him, either about a new pattern he figured out with sketching, or a new adventure in the book he’s reading, but rarely expects Derek to respond.

Derek may be too tired to do much, but that doesn’t stop him noticing a lot. Like the way that Stiles will only eat half of a loaf, and save the other on his bed. He wonders if no one comes down to feed him while Derek trains his men. He watches the way Stiles looks at him now, the way he stares at Derek’s muscles through the tunic.

He notices when Stiles’ scent started to change around him, from his everyday scent into a specific one triggered by being around him. It was close to arousal, but it also held a different type of energy. It was dark and powerful, like a lunar eclipse, but just like an eclipse, that’s all Derek could tell of it.

Summer also brings about his heat. He can feel it in the way that the women start to glance at him, wondering who he was going to choose for this heat. He can smell himself, a heavy musk swallowing him. He eats more, talks less. He spends more time down in the dungeon on his off days, less time whittling at wood. Derek lets his eyes wander far too much over at Stiles, who is absorbed with his drawings, or seems to be so. After the third or so day of Derek working on the same piece of wood, Stiles stretches, rising from his spot on the floor. He sits on a pillow from his cot, leaning back on it.

He turns around, facing away and Derek’s mind flashes back to the night he was naked. He wants to throw himself into the cell, tackle Stiles onto the bed and pound into him. He doesn’t want to take precautions, he doesn’t want to wait for permission. He cuts his hand on the knife and it brings him back to reality. Derek hopes his heat holds off until after evaluations, like it did the past nine summers.

Stiles is moving out of his tights, leaving his legs bare up to mid-thigh, and captivating Derek. Derek is unsure on why he plays these games, as if he can sense Derek’s emotions and moves to play with them. He throws the tights away from him, turning around to settle back into his spot. Derek fumbles with the wood in his hands, attempting to look like he wasn’t watching every move Stiles made.

He gets comfortable quickly, charcoal already back in hand. But there is a change in his demeanor, his legs folded up gently but spread out. One leg stands proud while the other bends to it, making Stiles look as if he is sitting submissively. Derek’s eyes drink it up, especially how he can almost imagine pushing those legs apart and diving in between them.

It isn’t his only personality change. When he shifts, he lets a sigh leave his lips, or a small groan. He tilts his head back when he stretches out his legs, like laying himself out for Derek. It occurs almost everyday as Derek’s heat nears, and drives him insane. He wouldn’t leave for anything though, even the extra training sessions he would do as evaluations grew closer. His body begged to be released of the torture, and he found his feet bringing him back down at night when Stiles’ heartbeat was rapid.

Derek rarely lasts as long as Stiles, too pent up with the smell of their sex and the cries of the boy. He leaves when Stiles is panting, the air sweet as morning dew, and his heartbeat dropping off to sleep. Derek’s dick is increasingly heavy with blood by the time he stumbles back into his room most nights, the memories enough to make him grab his sensitive skin.

It’s a week before evaluations and the only time Derek feels settled in his skin is when he’s around Stiles. He snaps at his trainees, skips lunch with his family, and cancels the second practice for the day. Going into the kitchen now is an everyday thing, so most of the cooks don’t stop their work to help him out. He grabs a plate and loads it with fruit and grains. He looks around and finds an entire bowl of nuts, and he just takes it.

He knows that he’s growling within his chest, and that it can probably be heard. He can’t stop though. He hates how his heat makes him, but it brought the animal out to the surface and it hates everyone.

Before he can make it to the dungeon, Peter finds him. Derek can feel his fangs drop just by looking at his uncle. Peter observes his contents from a safe distance, hands held upwards because he doesn’t want Derek to attack. “My dear nephew, I knew that you were somewhat attached to this prisoner, but this is actually hilarious.”

Derek stands still, glaring at his uncle. Daring him to take a step forward and stop him from taking the food to Stiles. “Can’t you see? You’re prepping the boy for your heat.” Peter laughs, a malicious sound falling from his lips. “Your body’s already made it’s choice.”

He darts off, too fast for Derek to consider chasing after. He holds steady to the food, feeling as if a bucket of ice water had just drenched him. It explained the burning need to be around Stiles, to see him and imagine him taken by Derek. Even now his body begs him to take the steps necessary to get near Stiles again.

He’s shaking by the time he gets down to the corridor, racing around in his head. He can smell Stiles’ scent, it already working on calming him. He doesn’t try to alert the boy to his presence, but he can hear Stiles rise as if he sensed Derek down the hall anyway. He quickly pushes the food into the slot, and the way Stiles smiles, oh God, it has Derek’s Wolf keening. It is unfair, by all means that his body would choose a heatmate that was completely unattainable.

Stiles quickly sat to eat, expecting Derek to sit too, his long legs stretched out. He grabs a few nuts and shoves them in his mouth. There’s a crunch, and then a throaty moan from Stiles. It’s just like that Derek knows he can’t be here, can’t be this close to Stiles before his heat. He won’t manage to make himself leave until it’s over if he doesn’t leave now.

And so Derek leaves. He walks away, which takes Stiles a second to realize, before he’s clambering up to get to the bars. “Derek? Derek! Where are you going?” Derek tries to block it out. “Please come back! I’m sorry! Whatever I did!” Derek knows Stiles now, knows he’ll say the first thing that pops into his head, but Derek often agrees with him anyhow. He folds to Stiles so easy.

“I need you!” It’s a cry, a whine, pushed out of his lips. Derek’s at the stairs, and he can’t. He can’t leave him like this, he has to understand. It isn’t a torture to walk back, to come back to the panting boy.

“I’m sorry.” Derek says, standing outside the cell once again. It is as if he blinks and returns back to where he wants to be. “I can’t be here.” The words come out but he doesn’t move again. Stiles doesn’t want him to move again.

Stiles wants him here, to sit and watch him eat and listen to him speak. Derek knows it, can feel it in his bones. “Why not?” Stiles doesn’t move away from the bars, an electric energy in between them.

“I’m…” Derek feels embarrassed saying it aloud. In front of his family, in front of the court, he didn’t have anything to fear. Standing here, in front of Stiles, in front of a prisoner, it’s hard to push the words past his lips. “I’m about to go through my heat. It’s not good to be so attached to a person.”

“Ah,” Stiles says, smiling sadly. Suddenly, Derek’s head is cleared for a moment, and he knows he’s making the right choice. His body is next to Stiles’ but he can’t feel him, can’t sense him. It’s detaching, to focus on. “Come back when you can?”

Derek sees Stiles bringing his hand outside of the bars, can see the fingers coming close to his skin. But he isn’t there, is he? He doesn’t know how to move in that moment, just like in the first moment they met. He snaps back to himself, his soul being dragged back into his body, when Stiles’ cold fingers brush his cheek.

A memory flares up, vibrant as if it was happening. Derek sits outside the cell, with Stiles inside. Stiles is talking about his dad being a soldier and Derek is confirming that the protocol is the same over in the Hale kingdom. He recounts a funny time that his father left his chainmail at home, and everything brightens. The colors become ultra, the entire scene becoming fuzzy with the feeling of happiness and hopefulness.

Derek wrenches his body back, outside of Stiles’ touch. Stiles rips his hand back, stumbling back and almost onto his food. He blinks at Derek, owlishly, as Derek stares back in shock. What did he just witness? “I will come back,” Derek promises, unsure on what else to say.  
\--  
He plans on spending the entire of his heat locked within the heat chamber. It’s a lower level, like the dungeons, but furnished for a heat. Derek plans to make one his home, his solitary, and to lock the door for the days. There is plenty of skins of water, nuts, bread, and meat to feed him as well as a partner.

Not that he’d be taking one.

It hits him a few days before evaluations, much to his dread. He’s in the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning, drowning himself with the clean water. He’s aware that his heat is around the corner, and is trying to stifle it, but he can feel all the heat in his skin pool directly to his groin. It’s such a sudden happening that he doubles over.

His mind fixates on pale skin and plump lips and moles. Stiles. His feet want him to go there, go straight into the dungeons and kill both of them by refusing to leave for nourishment for a week. And how he wants to, how his bones crave it. But his brain hasn’t left him yet, hasn’t abandoned him so he’s aware that that shouldn’t be his course of action.

He drags himself towards the heat chambers, thankful that it is too early for everyone to be up and about. It’s so early on only a few of the most loyal chambermaids have risen. He knows tomorrow all of his family will be able to tell that his heat hit him, and know where he went, his scent heavy and trailing.

But it isn’t enough to have his heat before evaluations, because he must be punished for doing the right thing. Peter ambles towards him, looking tired but otherwise pleased. “Nephew, say, do you need help getting to where you’re going?”

Derek snarls at him, trying to hurry past. He’s already a doubled-over, panting mess in need of privacy or else he might do something drastic. “Okay, I can take when my help isn’t wanted. The heat chambers aren’t too far ahead, just howl if you need something.” He strolls away from Derek in a laissez-faire way.

Derek wants to have the focus to analyze why Peter is up so early, but he barely has the focus to put his feet in front of him. His trek to the heat chambers leave him exhausted, slamming his way into the first one, rather than drag himself twenty feet for the one he had decided early he would stay in.

He came to a halt when he pushed the door close, though. Because chained up and sitting on the bed was Stiles. His arms are connected to his legs with a loose chain, that also connects to his neck and constricts his windpipe. Derek blinks at him, confusion overwriting everything in his brain. Had his heat melted his mind? Is this an illusion?

Stiles’ skin is flushed with a slight sheen over it, his scent rolling off of him in waves. The energy is muted with just an edge of purple that doesn’t belong on his skin. He looks over at Derek, a whine slipping out of his mouth. The overall smell of arousal told Derek that this isn’t a dream; even his subconscious couldn’t manufacture that smell perfectly. It clicks into place why Peter is up at this ungodly hour.

Does he think that this is a gift?

Derek’s feet drag him closer to Stiles, unwillingly. He doesn’t want to do anything to the boy, not without them both being right of mind. Stiles’ mouth remains open, panting harshly with an occasional soft sound coming out. Something is off, the functional part of his mind screams at him. The key to the chains sits a desk away, too far for Stiles to reach but too close for their use to be anything else.

Derek unchains him, that not even a question to him. Stiles looks in a worse state, looks like he wouldn’t try to fight. The second the chains are loose, he gulps in a deep breath. “Derek,” he groans, grabbing at Derek’s tunic and surging forward.

His lips are soft but his intent is desperate beneath them. Derek’s logic flies out the window, the heat taking over completely again. Any sense he had in terms of shock is gone, and he can taste something in his mouth, when he opens it to lick inside Stiles. He gasps, dragging his mouth away. “Wolfsbane?”

Stiles almost starts to cry when Derek moves away, his fists holding tightly to the cloth that he wears. His whines spike over the fence to something akin to painful. “Please, I need you.” He presses his knuckles into Derek’s abdomen, somehow spilling all his want, all his need into that touch. It’s in Derek’s blood, swirling in and out of his heart. How could he deny it?

He presses his hands onto Stiles’ shoulders, pushing him back. Climbing on top isn’t hard, and pressing into Stiles is like relief. Part of him says that this is wrong, to claim a heatmate like this, to claim anyone like this. Stiles is obviously drugged on some form of wolfsbane, but when Derek pushes a thigh between his legs it doesn’t stop Stiles from groaning. He isn’t so not present that he doesn’t feel pleasure.

He mimics the sound of bliss Stiles makes, everything that he feels feels magnified. He hasn’t experienced this before. Stiles’ jaw feels strong, caught between Derek’s hands. He presses his lips to Stiles’, softly. It feels as if a piece of him is splintering apart to line up with Stiles. He loves it.

Stiles braids his hands into his hair, tugging at it. There’s a spark that lights a fire in Derek’s chest and he bears his hips down on Stiles’. He gasps, and Derek slips into him, his tongue hot and heavy. He tries to memorize the way Stiles’ shudders when Derek bites his lip, the way he gasp when Derek presses a hand to his throat. Derek wants to mark him up, so badly that no one would be able to see him as anything but Derek’s. He wants to hold him down until he submitted to Derek.

He wants to posses him.

He couldn’t place many bruises on Stiles, he knows, before Stiles would question it too heavily. Derek still bites into his neck, licking and teasing. He tries to stifle a sound close to a scream which just further makes Derek think someone put Stiles on edge for this. Stiles is sensitive to everything, from the wet of his tongue, to the heat of his breath. His hands find purchase on Derek’s shoulders, scrambling to tear at the tunic. He bucks up every time Derek bears down, probably hating how much Derek loves the taste of him, how much Derek loves to press into his sensitive spots. But, after what was probably mere minutes, Derek’s heat reminds him that this isn’t a luxury fuck.

They shed themselves of their tunics, Derek first. He has never had a problem with nudity, seeing as he is a Wolf and a soldier. Stiles is overheated, overstimulated, but it still takes coaxing to get him to remove his garment. When he does, he lays back down, looking away from Derek, chest heaving. His arousal is tainted by fear of rejection.

Derek uses his hair, admittedly not the most gentle of ways, to turn Stiles’ face back towards him. He kisses him softly on the lips, and then tilts his head up to kiss softly on his neck. His feather kisses continue down his body, causing Stiles to breathe loudly and twitch. It’s music to Derek, who doesn’t think he could become more aroused. His dick seems to disagree when he bites Stiles’ hip harshly and the boy practically sings. His moan is cut off by his body stiffening up, pressing against Derek’s lips. He smiles, kissing lightly again.

Stiles’ dick is beautiful to Derek, slightly curved and cut. It’s head is turning a lovely shade of purple, with some of his precome leaking out. Derek admires it for a moment before licking the length of it and then swallowing. Thank the heavens for no gag reflex. Stiles bucks up, crying out a piece of profanity. His hands, which had been laying in Derek’s hair, grip his head and a memory flashes in front of him.

It’s Stiles, Stiles pressing up into himself and Derek knows he’s right on the other side of the cell, he can hear the dull thud when his back hit the wall. It was the first time. Why was he seeing this from Stiles’ perspective? He can feel Stiles’ heart thudding in his chest, the fear and exhilaration of the idea of getting caught. He knows it’s him, he’s with Stiles and he knows that he is within the corridor.

Stiles lets a name slip just because it feels good.

And Derek is back here, his mouth popping off of Stiles’ dick. He pants, looking at Stiles with crazed eyes. His heat was eating him from the inside out, melting all reason. All that is is flesh and sweat and how sweet Stiles smells. That’s all there needs to be.  
\--  
The days pass with Derek feeding food to Stiles and carving out a place for himself in Stiles. His temperature never goes down, and all the water is too citric for Derek to think it’s pure. It’s only in moments, flashes, of clarity does he question why Stiles seems to be in heat himself.

Stiles never lets him stay lucid for long, his need greater in some ways. A simple brush against his skin leaves him begging and he only seems content when Derek is completely focused on him. It doesn’t unsettle him, how badly Stiles wants him, but it feeds to his heat in a way that it’s never been fed before.

In intense moments, Derek sees things. Stiles will press his palms flat, on his chest, neck, shoulders, anywhere and there will be a small memory. The way the berries tasted on Stiles’ tongue, how cold the first night he bathed was, the excitement behind teasing Derek with his bare legs and pale neck.

It’s during the first time that Derek can’t control himself that he can feel a memory. It is the third day of his heat. He leaves the bed for a moment, mainly to relieve himself and wash his face, and he returns to--to an obscene disaster. Stiles keeps himself up on his knees, struggling to stick a third finger into his ass, and is panting. He doesn’t call out for Derek, doesn’t let Derek know his need. He whimpers, and any rationality that Derek could hold onto dances away in the wind.

Derek’s mind is overtaken by his Wolf, his sensibilities overtaken by instinct. The only thing he is aware of now is that Stiles is his, and that Derek is the one person allowed to elicit pleasure from him that way. He can’t help how he rips out a snarl, startling Stiles enough to slip his fingers free and look back.

Derek doesn’t give him time to see him, see how far he’s allowed his heat to take him. He dashes over to the bed, grabbing both of Stiles’ wrist. The sharp noise he makes distinctly lets off warning signals in the back of his head, that Derek is hurting Stiles. The selfish, dark parts of him take sick satisfaction from it, the way he knows there is going to be dark bruises cuffing Stiles for the next few days. He bites into the back of Stiles’ neck hard enough to draw blood, hard enough that he gets the message to settle down.

Derek doesn’t flip him over to mate sweetly. He doesn’t lick at the wound he creates, soothing away the hurt. He does release Stiles’ wrists, if only to grab onto his hips and steady him for Derek. He notices the claws that prick at the soft skin, that well up with blood because he’s holding on too tightly. He drags his one of his hands to Stiles’ back, moving it to press between his shoulder blades and hold his torso down. His hand keeps pressed onto him tightly, and his nails dip into the pale skin.

The primal part of him loves the smell of the blood in their den, the way it sounds when Stiles hiccups out a cry.

Derek shoots his hand out, moving from his back to his throat and using it to push Stiles up. Their skin is flush, chest to back, and Derek’s Wolf races with the pounding of Stiles’ heart. He’s slick and heat and pain and pleasure. He’s everything Derek wants and he’s here for Derek’s taking. The mere thought is intoxicating enough to have Derek bury himself inside Stiles, pulling him up and down on Derek’s cock by his tight grip on his throat.

He hears Stiles’ thin attempts to breathe, small little gasps. He darts his hands up to Derek’s, his fingers scrambling to find purchase on the vise on his throat and pull it off, but Derek remains persistent. His mind screams only of take, of mate, of claiming. Stiles finally grabs on and--and.

It’s a memory. A soft one, and Derek’s outside. The sunlight is so warm but the wind keeps it from staying on his skin too long. It must be spring. It is a loud day, probably with the new goods just being unloaded from the ship. He’s in the market place, looking at the linens and silks with a girl. She smells of honeysuckle and daisies and she’s all smiles and fast glances. She places her hand on Derek’s arm and it’s a real weight, with warmth. “Do you agree that this purple would look dashing for you?”

Derek opens his mouth, responding with a different voice and he realizes he’s with Stiles. He’s, quite literally, in Stiles. “If that’s what the lady believes, then I will concede the point to you.”

She laughs, her hand sliding down to catch his hand. Their fingers intertwine and it’s familiar. It’s a comfort. “You only say that because you know that fashion is not what you have studied.”

“The court’s taste changes so quickly I do not think I would be able to answer properly even if I was well versed in fashion.” Derek can feel the companionability between them, the way Stiles’ heart is inclined towards her. She looks young, as does Stiles feel young. It’s as if he is a separate, but intact, part of Stiles. He isn’t a different person, just a different voice in his head.

It’s jarring.

Derek snaps back to where they are with a sharp relief, coming inside Stiles. His hand automatically loosens, and Stiles chokes in a few precious gulps of air. He slides off of Derek, lying back in bed and panting. Derek touches his neck, where he can see his claiming bite clear as day. Stiles stays still underneath him.

“My apologies,” He murmurs, half back to himself. The heat is breaking, but it would still take another day to two before it has truly left him.

Stiles rolls over, making a non-consequential sound, and Derek has to stop himself from throwing his weight onto him. His neck is purpling fast, a ring of fingers around it. Derek won’t admit to feeling selfishly proud, even if he felt a tad bit like a monster for leaving it there. Stiles opens his arms slightly, obviously hoping for Derek to rest with him.

“‘S the heat.” Stiles sighs into Derek’s neck when he finally settles next to him. The way he says the heat, instead of his heat, reminds Derek that Stiles is also going through a heat of sorts. His mind flashes to the meals and drinks that arrive outside the heat chamber everyday for Stiles. Derek has given them to him without a second thought, but should he have? His brain is rebooting, but still feels to sluggish to know the answers to his self-imposed questions.  
\--  
Summer begins to fade into the colors of the trees and the harvest of the crops. Derek brings Stiles his food, a way to clean himself, and anything to do with drawing. Stiles lays facing away from him, always, on his cot while he pretends to be asleep. His heartbeat tells a different story.

Derek doesn’t ask about the memories, still a vibrant part of the heat to him. He doesn’t demand answers. Stiles doesn’t talk to him anymore, anyhow. He doesn’t look at Derek. Derek wonders what he did wrong.

He leaves Stiles be, taking up more time in the arena. The other soldiers have come to fear him, his constant training making him nigh impossible to best on the sands. He visits Cora, bringing her sweets and stories from within and without the palace. She expects a weekly visit from him now, and thankfully, she doesn’t ask about Stiles. He knows word got around that he took a prisoner as his heatmate. He sit with his mother while she works over civilian disputes. The first few times she rose her eyebrows at him, as if he begging him to answer her unspoken question. He always ducked his head, and it became enough of an answer for her. He is even allowed to place his opinion on some disputes.

It’s when he finds himself in the library with Peter that he realizes he’s lonely. Peter has taken up the occupation of translating books for the royals to read, and is working on one when Derek wanders in. Derek reads over his shoulder shortly, noting that this particular book is about Mages and the powers they might possess, whether it be to change nature or manipulate the mind.

The leaves are almost all fallen, and the crop has long come in and the edge of winter taunts them. It is too cold to wear fall garb, and yet the winter furs overheat Derek. He often finds himself thinking on Stiles’ and his first encounter. He shuffles away from Peter in order to stand and stare at the book shelf.

Peter sighs, after a second of Derek gazing at the books with no real purpose, before putting down his quill. “My lovely nephew, why have you graced me with your intrusion?” His voice sounds pleased, but his words tell a different story.

“I thought I may find a good read, and you happen to be within the library.” Derek replies, his heartbeat giving him away.

“Ah, is the story for our prisoner?” Something must flash across Derek’s face, an emotion so quick that Derek couldn’t even feel it properly before he shut it down. There’s nothing but a hollow ache in his chest, and it is manageable. Nothing is wrong. “Or has something gone amiss in your blossoming relationship?”

Derek does his best to school his features, not enjoying how his uncle knows he should let this conversation go and doesn’t. “Does he not wish to see you anymore? Or you him?”

“I wish to see him.” Derek finds the words falling out of his mouth, unbidden by him.

“How you wish.” Picking up pheromones on purpose is something that Wolves weren’t supposed to do. “I can barely stand to see you look so miserable, Derek. I may find humor at yours, as well as everyone else’s, expense, but that does not make me cruel. I was hoping that by lacing Stiles up on omega heat replicants that you two would work out.”

Derek feels his jaw go slack. “I knew you did something to him.” For the first time in almost a full moon’s time, Derek feels something pure. It’s anger. “How did you think we’d work out? That I would use and then lose him? That my feelings would go away?”

Peter looks at him curiously, “No, you knave. I was hoping that by mating him you’d swing favor to Talia to make him your servant.” He folds his hands out, placating. “Maybe a mistress of sorts.”

Derek feels as if he’s had a bucket of ice dumped on him. “But, he doesn’t even wish to speak with me, much less be tied to me.”

“Are you sure that he hasn’t spoken to you because you left him after heat week in the dungeons, like he was nothing but a place to put your dick in?” Peter raises his brow.  
\--  
Derek isn’t leaving until he gets some answers. So this time, all he goes down into the dungeons with is a feeling of determination. Stiles is facing away from him in his cot, shoulders tense, but Derek doesn’t pay it attention - can’t pay it attention. He pulls open the door, sitting in front of it, in the cell.

“Stiles.” No response. “Stiles.” Derek begins to feel irritated, not used to being ignored. “Stiles, we need to talk.” The last piece of the sentence sounds more like a growl, and actually manages to get a response.

Stiles rolls to face Derek, looking closed-off and uninterested. “What could Prince Hale want with me now?” He drawls out, his tone explicit in what he thinks Derek is wanting.

Derek flinches as if he had been struck. “You know it’s not like that. I wasn’t even planning on heat week to happen like that. That was my uncle, Peter. I would never do that to you.”

“Sorry that I’m not exactly your cup of tea.” He spits out, eyes flashing hurt.

“You are,” Derek sighs. He wants to be honest with Stiles, wants this to work. He’s so sick of being without him. “I just wanted you to have the choice.”

“Well, I didn’t.” If Derek was hoping that admitting his feelings would change Stiles’ tone, then he is foolish. “And it’s over with, so you know what would be great? To be left alone, or I don’t know, maybe let out of this dungeon!” He sits up abruptly, tugging on his hair as he yells.

“What if I could give you that choice?” Stiles rears back a slight bit, shock written over his features. Derek feels drunk on the hope that maybe, maybe, he could fix this. “It wouldn’t be complete freedom, but you, you’d be with me and I would take you anywhere you wanted to go, Stiles.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I took you as a entourage, as a public mate of mine, you could go anywhere with me. You’d be free, or as free as I could make you.” Derek says it all in a rush, knowing his mother could refuse him, there could be limitations, that he could be completely wrong. He wills fate to be with him today.

Stiles examines him carefully. “You mean until you toss me away or get bored of my company?”

Derek gapes at him, unsure of what led him to this conclusion. “Never!” He scoots forward a bit, but reminds himself the door cannot be left unprotected at the moment. If Stiles leaves and is captured, there is no way that Derek could ever convince his mother. “Even if we weren’t to be anything other than friends, I would not send you back here. I think of you as part of my pack.” It’s a soft admission, full of all the emotions Derek is rare to show.

Stiles seems to understand what that means, or at least what it implies. He should, seeing as he was a part of Deucalion’s court. He takes a deep breath. “I would like it very much...if you could give me that choice.”

Derek levels himself, staring straight into the amber eyes that captured him a year ago. “Then we need to talk about what happened during heat week.” He can hear, no, feel, Stiles’ heart stutter. “What did I see? How did you show me your memories?”

Derek fears for a moment that Stiles will close up, just like every time Derek got a little bit closer to understanding who he is. But then, so slowly, Stiles takes a deep breath in and then he speaks. He talks on his mother, a beautiful Mage and chambermaid to the Deucalion’s first wife. He says that she had the power to sway favor to herself, through manipulating the minds of others, by rearranging their feelings. When he sees Derek’s look of horror, he ensures that she only used it to keep the lady in favor with the king and herself in favor with the lady. She was killed shortly after Stiles was born, which everyone said that happened because she had been pregnant with a soldier’s baby, but Stiles knew it was because she was a Mage.

He talks about being allowed to stay as long as he stayed underneath Deucalion, how he tried to get Stiles to become a Mage as powerful as his mother. Derek tries to keep his face blank when he spoke on Deucalion withholding meals or clothes from Stiles if he couldn’t do what Deucalion wanted him to do, which was often. He learned how to share memories through touch and make impressions of sorts in people’s minds. He admits that it was how he kept the Wolves at bay, by tapping into their instinct and giving them the impression that he shouldn’t be approached. He promises that that is the extent of his power, that he will never be on the same level as his mother.

He speaks hesitantly on the girl that Derek saw during heat week. Her name was Heather, and she was a duchess. Stiles flushes upon mentioning her, smelling of grief and love. She was his fiancee, beautiful and wonderful in every way to him. He should have realized, when she started pushing for him to show her more with his magic, that she was just there because Deucalion placed her there. Which is why he shouldn’t have been surprised, when he produced nothing that Deucalion hadn’t already seen, that he killed her.

He tells Derek how he fled Deucalion’s kingdom because his father was removed from the ranks of the soldiers, how he was thrown in jail and was probably dead because of his son, and that there was nothing left for Stiles. He left with his purse in the middle of the night, slipping through the sewer system so they couldn’t track his scent. He admits he wasn’t coming to the Hale kingdom, just running with no trace of destination. He had stumbled upon the castle, and was looking closely to see how it was run. He didn’t want to be in a different kingdom, in the same spot of working for the King.

The sun is stretching its rays to touch the horizon goodmorning when Derek leaves Stiles. He shuts the door, hopefully for the last time, and stumbles back up to his room exhausted. He hopes that having Stiles’ story would persuade his mother into freeing him. Or, giving him someone to watch over him until she can decide that he is trustworthy.

Derek hopes that fate is with him, just this once.  
\--  
His father is quiet at his request, but his mother is not. She lists all the things that could go wrong, the fact that they had allowed him to continue visiting Stiles, the fact that they didn’t kill either of them after heat week. Derek is patient. Derek repeats his requests, offers solutions, thanks and repeats his request again.

He is their eldest son. He never asks for anything, never asks for a wife or a maiden or whore or anything else that would please a growing man. He never asks for favors, for riches or balls or anything that would show off his position. He has almost always played his part perfectly, the only request to be allowed to stay with them.

Now he had new request.

Eventually, a week or so after countless fits and upset brunches and crying while watching Derek avoid her at the arena, the queen caves. She gives full permission, granting it in front of everyone in the family at a dinner. It will spread through the palace quickly, Derek knows.

Stiles is free. Stiles is free to stay with him, and to go where he goes, Derek corrects himself. But still, how long has it been since Stiles felt the warmth of the burning sun or seen the busy streets of the market?

That night, for Derek cannot wait until daybreak, he darts down to the dungeons. He carries a lantern this time, his feet moving as fast as his heart. Stiles waits at the bars, peering over at Derek anxiously. He graces the younger boy with a grin, hopeful gleam maddening his eyes.

“Did...did they say yes?” Stiles’ hands and voice shake.

“Why else would I come visit at this hour?” Derek is breathless with his glee, tilts his head back and laughs, hand already going to open the cell door.

Stiles smiles back at him, a bubble of energy overflowing around him. The cell door swings free, and Stiles, Stiles steps out like a newborn encountering the world outside of its mother’s eye. Derek whispers excitedly to him, “Come on, it’s nighttime but I know the perfect place to see the moon.”

He follows quickly behind Derek, strangely quiet as Derek talks about all the things that he’ll get to do. He assures Stiles that his mother will warm up to him, that everyone in the family will love him. He even suggests that maybe someday Stiles will be able to venture out on his own. Derek could easily see his family falling in love with Stiles, trusting him the way that Derek already did.

It is when they are in a corridor that is filled with windows, and far from any sleeping quarters that Stiles speaks, saying something of merit. “Hey, Derek. You know how people have nicknames for others?”

Derek turns slightly around to glance at him; Stiles smirks behind him. Derek’s face feels hot, imagining what lewd nickname Stiles has probably given him. “Yeah.”

“Well, Stiles is my nickname.” Derek really should learn that no matter how well he thinks he knows Stiles’ behavior, he is always going to throw a curveball.

“Really? What’s your real name?”

Stiles laughs. “Oh, no one in my family uses it.”

“I still want to know.” Derek presses. The moonlight bathes the hall in its glow, and Derek feels a new flare of excitement at the idea of showing Stiles the sky.

“Okay, but it’s a little hard to pronounce.” Stiles warns him, his tone still warm but somehow, the way he wraps his words makes it sound...dangerous. “My real name is Genim.”

Derek can feel his heart actually stop, as a cold realization sweeps through him.

“Oh, but Derek?” He’s come to a complete stop, staring straight ahead in shock. Genim? “That’s not the only thing I didn’t tell you truthfully.”

Derek turns slowly to look at Stiles, no Genim, who is staring back with a twisted grin on his face. He looks like a maniac, like a person who has been waiting to tell good new to someone all day. “My mother was a mage, but Deucalion didn’t kill her. I did.”

His grin grows wider as Derek takes a step back. He wants to scream, to wake up the castle and lock away this boy forever. His entirety seems only focused on listening to Stiles - Genim - though. “I was a little too powerful at birth. So I guess I lied about that too, huh? I am much more powerful than my mother ever was.”

Derek feels like something is crushing his lungs and pulling out his heart at once. He drops to his knees, knowing that he is powerless. He hopes that his parents survive this hellbeast he fell for. He can’t even wheeze out a breath anymore to scream, eyes spilling over with tears as he stares up at Genim. The lantern light, fallen to the ground, makes him look more like the demon Derek never suspected he was.

His teeth gleam as he stretches open his mouth again.

“I’m also a lot more deadly.”

The world goes black.

**Author's Note:**

> I might make a second one, from Stiles' point of view, leading up to the capture and exactly the plan behind him killing Derek and what happens after Derek dies but that really depends on feedback. Anyway, let me know what you think. ALSO, DEREK'S DEATH IS AMBIGUOUS, BECAUSE I'M MAKING A PART TWO WHERE IT SHOWS FROM NOT HIS PERSPECTIVE AND REALLY OPENS UP THE QUESTION OF, DID HE DIE??


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